I Reenacted the Stairs Sex Scene From 'The Thomas Crown Affair'

"Do you want to dance? Or do you want to dance?"

Jan 16, 2015

Everett

From Friday, January 9 through Friday, January 16, ELLE.com is doing a deep dive into the world of female sexuality—from the perils of being a 24-year-old virgin in New York City to a beginner's guide to exhibitionism to the steamiest scenes in film history. Is it getting hot in here? Or is it just us?

If you've ever read a roundup of the hottest sex in film, chances are the stairs scene from the Thomas Crown Affair was on there. And with good reason. Who can forget Pierce Brosnan's toned buttock flexing with each thrust, or that slinky, semi-sheer, metallic dress slipping off Rene Russo's lithe figure? How about their naked bodies artfully entangled, rising and sinking in unison on Thomas Crown's sweeping marble staircase? It's one minute and 53 seconds of unequivocally smoking hot sex. It also looks like it would be just about the most uncomfortable thing to try to recreate. But, hey, I'll try almost anything once.

The first challenge in trying to DIY Crown coitus is finding an actual staircase to fuck on. Unless you're dating a mega billionaire with a townhouse on Fifth Avenue, most New York City residents don't have access to a set of stairs the public isn't privy to. Sure, the New York Public Library has a great set, but unless you want to spice things up with a misdemeanor, they're not the best option. I, however, was lucky enough to be house sitting a Gramercy-era duplex with a set of indestructible wooden stairs. Giddy up.

The next hurdle is finding a ready, willing, and able partner (a RWAP)—so, basically, a dude. This is considerably easier to procure because, frankly, there are few men out there who would answer no to the question, "Do you want to have sex with me on Monday night?" So, once I had my stairs and RWAP secured, I was ready to try this sexy sucker out.

The first important decision I made was to inform my RWAP of the plan. For a moment there, I considered springing it on him, and though I have (some) faith in my seduction abilities, the idea of having to pull off the "I want you so badly, please ravage me on these stairs right now" move when there are so many other available, far more practical options, stressed me out. So, instead, we casually discussed the project, and formed a detailed game plan over brunch—a cheese plate, to be precise.

We decided that it only made sense to watch the movie first. So, on a casual Monday night, while eating tacos, the natural choice for a pre-sex meal, we watched The Thomas Crown Affair in full. Then, we went back and watched the sex scene three times, discussing the different elements that would have to be incorporated into our own stairs conquest.

"That looks cold," he said as we watched Thomas Crown (Brosnan) and Catherine Banning (Russo) starting their sexscapade on the townhouse floor.

"Lucky for you, I'll be on the bottom," I countered.

"So, he's kind of on the side-top now," RWAP noted as we tilted our heads, examining the angle at which Crown was expertly taking her on the stairs.

"Do NOT pick me up. You do not have to pick me up," I told him as we watched Crown effortlessly carry Banning into his study.

"Oh, I'm picking you up," RWAP said matter-of-factly "We have to stay true to the script."

"Well, we better clear this off," he said, standing up to remove my laptop, some magazines, and a vase off the desk beside us, "because we're going to be doing it here too."

Then, RWAP found the soundtrack on YouTube. "Do you want to dance? Or do you want to dance?" he asked me. "Oh, God." I replied—not in a guttural, uttered-involuntarily-straight-from-my-loins kind of way, but more in a cringing, whyWhy WHY kind of way. But I appreciated the enthusiasm and attention to detail all the same.

And so, we went for it.

Splayed out on the staircase, my wobbly bits highlighted on different levels like the winners of the gold, silver, and bronze medals in the Jello Olympics, I felt decidedly more Zellweger (of the Bridget Jones variety) than Russo. "This isn't going to work," RWAP said finally. "No! What?" I answered, fumbling on the steps, trying to figure out where to put my elbows, how to balance my hips, and what to do with my head and neck, since my head was somehow too long to rest on a step and my neck not built to bend at a backwards, 90-degree angle. "No, we're doing this," I said firmly, finally settling on a pose resembling Michelangelo's "The Creation of Adam," but without any of Adam's grace or muscle definition. "Come here, now," I instructed. RWAP carefully climbed on top of me, trying to find a place to rest his knees and arms. Neck straining, I attempted to direct him while making enough room on the narrow staircase so that our bodies could align. "No, this isn't going to work," RWAP said even more firmly than any of my it must work assertions. "Switch with me."

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Gingerly, I extricated my knees and lifted my ribcage, which had been resting/crunching between two steps, getting up to let him slide beneath me. It was at this moment, when he assumed his position as awkward plank, that I realized he was still wearing his socks. Striped, bright, colorful dress socks. Not wanting to crush his admirable enthusiasm, and because I'm a team player, I restrained myself and didn't comment. But socks, I thought, cringing, So not Thomas Crown. So not sexy. (Sorry, RWAP.)

Determined yet, I climbed towards him, and prepared to straddle his hypotenuse-straight bod. Sure, this wasn't the exact position Crown and Banning demonstrated, but it was stairs sex, and we were going to do it. "Hmm, where can I put my knee?" I asked when I was finally on top of him, uncomfortable, unsteady, and seemingly impenetrable. "Not going to work," he said moving one of my feet to a higher step and trying to guide my torso. With me, hovering like a sad frog trying to find my mark, and him, lying there trying to hold me–and, not to mention, an erection—in place, the "mood," which had been a nice balance of light fun and legitimate desire, started to dissipate. Fast.

"Here, get up and turn around," RWAP instructed, coming to a sitting position on the stairs. As I gripped both walls, he lowered me down onto him. He was in! This certainly wasn't a scene out of The Thomas Crown Affair—it was more of a move out of James Deen's playbook, really—but it was sex, and it was happening. In this position, however, I was doing all the work, and soon my quads were burning. I'm going to kill my trainer, he says I'm in such great shape, I thought. As my legs shook, my arms ached, and my body started to sweat, I realized I was thinking a lot more about how fucking hard this was than the actual fucking. And nothing good was going to come from that—at least for me. RWAP, it seemed, was finally enjoying himself.

"Yep, done. We did it," I declared, getting up and taking his hand. "Can't do that anymore, let's go somewhere else," I said passing the desk and leading him to a more comfortable, pragmatic venue.

So no, we didn't finish on the stairs, the desk, or the office floor with our feet entwined, laughing and taking swigs of bottled water. But we enjoyed ourselves on a more mundane surface all the same. And, you know there are two sex scenes in The Thomas Crown Affair, right?

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